


Compulsions

by bulbousalligator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Basically everyone is FBI ok, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Criminal Dean, Criminal Past, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, FBI Agent Castiel, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Forced Amnesia, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Medical Practices, Past Medical Torture, Physical Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sub Dean, Top Castiel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, kinda i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulbousalligator/pseuds/bulbousalligator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester gave up his life of crime seven years ago to follow the straight and narrow. This eventually, though he's a bit blurry on the details, landed him in the GAIU (though no one has told him what the 'GA' stands for) as the non-psychic partner for pairings; something he has yet to come to terms with, but if you want to hide something you may as well put it in the media, right?<br/>Things for Dean were finally stable. He had a job he loved, healthy friendships, and a place he could call 'home'. Until an Agent Novak passes a case his way and uproots his life. Permanently. The bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. GAIU

There are a lot of things that Dean Winchester considers himself, and none of those things are a traitor. He was more willing to accept ‘alcoholic’ before ‘traitor’, even. So when he was pulled aside to an interrogation room (which really put disgrace to the title, seeing as the chairs were large and comfortable, and there was no table in sight to separate the interrogator and the interrogated) to test his loyalties, he was insulted; something that he planned to make very clear to the agents who would 'interrogate' him (though that word was honestly far too kind a word for the techniques implemented by the GIUA; the tactics here are far more invasive, and far less in the control of the interrogated persons, which Dean had to admit had been helpful on most cases he had worked to some extent but that was before it was his brain on the chopping block).

Dean had seen his fair share or interrogation rooms before, having the unique experience of having experienced sitting on both sides of the table, even well before this placement in GIAU. Dean had been just outside of the law for the majority of his life, after all. It’s what he had been born into, and really, working for the people who had once hunted him still served as a shock to him most days, five years of service aside; and in moments similar to this one he wondered if he was still being hunted, albeit in far more subtle ways than the previous manhunts.

That was all probably the reason he had been forced into this far too plush chair.

When the door finally opened Dean couldn't hold back his annoyed huff. He knew of this dark haired man; sat higher up on the food chain than Dean himself, which was impressive on its own considering just how high Dean had managed to climb despite what he is assured is a hefty criminal record. But more impressive still was the iron rod shoved so far up this guy's ass that he must be able to taste it. The few times Dean had seen this particular man, though each time was through a screen on security tapes he had needed to examine to find the type of person Dean himself was being accused of, and damn if he ever so much as fractionally relaxed. He doubted the guy had ever so much as shrugged in his entire life. Or slouched, or even relaxed in any way. Dean considered for a brief moment that he never had the opportunity or means, but quickly brushed that aside. He may very well just be a frigid asshole who views himself above most due to his impressive ‘abilities’.

As the frigid man, whose eyes were impossibly blue and if that didn't prove Dean's point he didn't know what would because really that has to be some arctic ice stowed in his face, lowered himself carefully into the opposite chair, Dean concluded that the man had never sat before either. His movements were all too measured and mechanical; each movement seeming perfectly planned and carried out but seeming foreign all the same. There was an odd sort of grace to the motions that did nothing more than grate uncomfortably with the notion of the man being stiff.

The man was in no way fascinating. Dean had no intentions of figuring out what made this man tick, not even the slightest. That ice in his eyes that racketed between meting and re-freezing time and time again? Didn’t peak and interest in Dean at all.

The new man must have noticed how he had his eyes trained instead on his cheeks every time his own raised to meet Dean’s, because the first thing he said was: "You know what I am capable of."

Now, Dean had never heard the man's voice before but it rang in the base of his skull all the same in a faintly painful sort of recognition. He didn't even know his name, but the sound that rumbled from his throat made Dean's eyes flicker to his mouth in surprise. It in no way made sense that such an unassuming man, albeit a stiff one, should have such a voice. Unfair is what it was. But obviously nothing about this man would be fair, that much had been clear the moment he had breezed into the room.

"I know what you're capable of." Dean repeated, his lips twisting into a mockery of a smirk. "And you're not needed here. I have no secrets." Mostly that was true. Since his employment, Dean's apartment was under constant surveillance. Every employee’s was. But that just meant that his sex life was no secret, and if he’s being honest Dean had brought home more than one partner in the interest of either greatly disturbing or greatly improving the night of whichever surveillance crew watched him at the time just for kicks, even if it went against his deeply ingrained philosophy of never bringing one night stands into his home-

“That is a lie. You have many secrets.” -Dean's past, however, was as secretive as the GIAU. Hell, even some of it was unknown to himself. Which would be pretty fucking creepy if he hadn’t consented to the wipe, but nothing could ease the discomfort of the memory gaps; and there’s the altogether discomforting notion that he hadn’t really consented to the wipe in the first place, which is a thought that kept up some nights with a nice bottle of anything remotely alcoholic. As it was, most of Dean Winchester’s life ranging from nineteen to twenty four was a blank slate. Hell, even parts of the last year was missing. He assumed it was mandatory screening. Something that, okay, he resented more than just a little.

With a shrug, Dean twisted so his legs dropped from the arm of the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together between them. Finally he met the man’s eyes, a blue much like the blue of an ocean during storms, but he could wax poetic about how his eyes are the bluest blue to blue in recent centuries for days without running out of bullshit comparisons. All the same, meeting his gaze was more of a challenge than anything. “Must be frustrating for someone like you, huh?” He gave in to the urge to curve his lips in a smug smile. It in no way was helping him, but the clench of Blue’s jaw was enough of a reward as any. At the least he was annoyed with Dean’s mannerisms, and that was just golden.

“I can assure you, Agent Winchester, that the only thing that frustrates me is your complete lack of respect.” His voice dipped a note deeper; something Dean wasn’t entirely sure was possible in the first place but was impressed by it all the same.

A huff from near the door drew Dean’s attention. He had been aware of Singer’s presence, of course, but had deemed the man he didn’t know to be more important in this given situation. “Stow the pissing match and get on with it, Novak.”

Dean grinned at the grumpy man. Anyone who had served in this department as long as Singer had would have a chronic case of a cactus up the ass. It was a source of much pleasure to Dean, providing him not only with a pastime during lulls in investigations, but also with information tidbits. Last week: Agent Adler’s fondness of young redheads. This time: Novak.

“Apologies.” ‘Novak’ nods minutely in the general direction of Dean’s boss while maintaining as much eye contact as he could manage with Dean. In the back of his mind he wondered just how good it would feel to tear those pretty blues from his head and squish them under his boot. Probably pretty damn good. Those eyes were a weapon, and Novak would certainly use them on him given the chance. “Your assistance is required on an investigation I am personally heading.”

Well fucking congratulations.

Dean cocked his eyebrow as a silent ‘And?’

“Your unique criminal record would give a strategic advantage we are currently lacking.”

“Shit Bobby, you been singing praises of me to the higher ups? I’m flattered.” Dean swivelled his gaze to the bearded man, a grin stretching his lips to bare his teeth in a display that was a good few steps below threatening.  
  
            All he got back was a scoff and a gruff: “Shouldn’t be.”

Dean rolled his eyes and let them fall back on Novak’s face, once again carefully avoiding his eyes. He held his hand out for the folder balanced across Novak’s legs. “Case details?”

“-Will be released to you in the event that you agree to work it.” His fingers tapped pointedly against the thick brown paper. Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“What will be expected of me in the event that I agree to work it?” Spitting the words back did little to ease the coiling frustration in Dean’s chest. It did, however, give a childish sort of pleasure.

“More than has been expected of you on any other case you have worked.”

Jaw working as he stared into Novak’s blank gaze, Dean weighed the pros and cons of punching the guy in his fucking deadpan mug. “Specifics, Novak.”

The guy tilted his head. Like the information was trivial. And it did nothing but piss Dean off all the more. “You would infiltrate in whatever way you could manage and bring certain indicated individuals to an undisclosed location for information extraction.”

Dean was silent for longer than he would care to admit. “That’s all?”

Novak’s mouth took on an amused quirk; the kind that a disinterested parent takes to something trivial their child said. “The infiltration will likely require highly illegal activities.”

And that’s where the criminal record came into play. Brilliant. Change your ways to the straight and narrow only to be shoved back into that twisted crooked mess.

“Are we talking drug cartel illegal, or mass murder illegal?” Dean was fairly certain he had been entwined in both previously.

After a brief pause, Novak clasped his hands together, mirroring Dean’s pose as best he could with the folder laid across his lap. No trace of amusement remained. “Unfortunately this would fall closer to the mass murder end of the scale.”

Dean’s teeth ground together; a sharp pain shot through his jaw. Wordlessly, he held his hand out for the folder a second time. Novak handed it over, taking the hand for the answer it was.

Before Dean even opened the folder and saw the scrawled note of ‘human trafficking’ he already regretted accepting the job. People were going to die. And he would be killing some of them. The grim set of Agent Novak’s mouth told him just that; better than any words would have been able to express.


	2. Middle Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so, it occurred to me while I was working on a later chapter that I'd written the first chapter of this on my phone and had never actually gotten around to editing it, so I updated that today (Jan. 15th), and there's about a half or a whole page of new content (none of which I think is necessary knowledge if you'd rather just truck on with chapter two, but spelling mistakes and such has been fixed).  
> Also, I've taken off the 15 chapter prediction (I'd had ten chapters done and figured five more would get the job done) because I've decided to go a different direction which I'm much happier with, but because of that I'm not sure when I'll be finished. I'm thinking this will go past 15 chapters now, though.

Preparations took longer than expected. Almost two weeks passed before Dean could approach Agent Novak. If he was being honest with himself, which he hardly ever was, the only reason prep had taken two weeks instead of two days was all in his own head. Contacting the associates from his past had been easy enough. Withholding his anger and reluctance to jump back into the life he had abandoned years ago seemed an impossible task.

 

That, and he was fairly certain he would punch Novak for dragging him into what was surely going to royally fuck with his mental state, and the bastard did it with a stupid fucking calculating stare and quizzical head tilt.

 

Novak looked nothing like that now. He sat reclined in his office chair, eyes closed, face scrunched, and hand resting on the top of his head. All in all, he looked fucking exhausted and emotionally drained. And damn if Dean didn’t feel sympathetic.

 

Arms filled with various folders and a binder or two Dean was forced to clear his throat. Well, he could have kicked the door frame, sure, but why ruin new shoes so soon after buying them? Fuck, they’ve been worn, what, three times? It would be a damn crime to scuff them unnecessarily.

 

Novak snapped gracelessly into an upright position. His face was composed, and if it wasn’t for the slightly widened eyes Dean would have been fooled. As it was, it was fairly obvious that a private reflection had been interrupted, not just secret office nap time. Dean almost felt guilty. Almost. Bitterness won over the sympathy that had bloomed only moments ago in his chest.

 

“Your plan won’t work.” Dean stepped into the office uninvited, carefully using the soles of his shoes to kick the door closed behind him. With a pointed frown at Novak’s cluttered desk he continued: “Normally something like this would seem logical. It would take months, at least, to work up the ranks as you have outlined, and that’s even assuming that I would be accepted into the operation and given the opportunity to move up-“ Dean huffed in annoyance and absentmindedly clenched his jaw. “Look, wither you move all that crap out of the way or everything’s going on the floor.”

 

Novak, who had been sitting patiently listening only seconds ago, narrowed his eyes. It’s likely his response is purely out of spite. “I suggest you set up on the floor then, Agent.”

 

Dean maintained eye contact as he over dramatically held his arms out to his sides to let the piled thump loudly against the floor. He kept his expression carefully controlled so as to not to possibly show hatred so early in the project. His jaw clenched again before he continued.

 

“The guy you have down as the mastermind or whatever isn’t right. The guy is brutal, sure, everyone on the streets knows about Alistair, but he’s a gun hand. A high up highly trusted gun hand with a reputation that he more than lives up to, but still a gun hand.” Dean squats to fan out the sealed files: dossiers on suspected and known persons working in the human trafficking ring. Three were pulled from the pile before Dean righted himself. “No one in this group seems to fit the behavioral analysis-“

 

It’s now that Agent Novak interrupts the stream of information. “You weren’t given the behavioral analysis, Agent Winchester.” His eyes once again narrowed, though this time it was in suspicion instead of annoyance. Dean suppressed, barely, the urge to roll his eyes so hard they stuck in the back of his head. No such effort was made to withhold the rather impressive sigh.

 

“Didn’t need to. I’ve got a working brain under these good looks.” Dean’s smirk was short lived. Novak’s frown stayed strong. “Business man, high up in some huge corporation, right? He’d have to be, to be able to keep such a large and wide stretching operation stable and running smoothly. Guy has a kid, a boy from the looks of it since that’s the gender that was first being pulled into the system. I’d guess a teen. Girls being taken looks more like a business move, which would lend me to think we were dealing with a woman, but then the top suspected age of those pulled into this system rose to thirty-two. A woman would have stayed in the child range, more specialised. This operation is too generalised. Trying to do everything.” And, okay, Dean hadn’t worked out much past that, and even this was all speculation that he had yet to polish, but the need to prove himself had pressed against his chest, forcing the words from his lungs. Novak didn’t look impressed, but he hardly had any particular look to him other than the general ‘over worked agent’ that everyone else in the building also held. All the same, Dean was rather proud of himself. Which is why he raised his eyebrows in a sort of silent dare.

 

Novak waved him on. Dean cleared his throat.

 

“Now. Alistair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in the top five of the food chain, but he’s no ringleader. Not in something like this.” Dean pushed some papers on the desk aside to lay out the files he held, opening Alistair’s first. “Now, if this was some sort of  pay-to-torture den or a ‘Torturing 101’ class, yeah, that’d be him.” After flipping through the pages, of which there were few, he pulled forth a report with a picture attached, laying it next to a similar one from the trafficking operation. He pointed to the one from Alistair’s file: a uniquely mutilated woman, who, among many other things, had been forced to bite off and eat her own fingers. “Alistair is brutal. He’s all about inflicting the most physical pain possible, but the psychological is just as important to him. He could have cut this girl’s fingers off, but he made her bite them off instead. He’s a psychopath.” He moved his finger to the other picture: a young boy with multiple lacerations, stab wounds, and needle marks. “None of that brutality is shown here. This is different. It’s Alistair’s knife and Alistair’s hand that did this, but not his order; the majority of these wounds were likely punishments, all things that would hurt like a bitch but leave no scaring.” He indicated to the marks along the boy’s chest extending around his back and around the sides of his leg. “They had to keep him pretty to sell, and scars would lower his monetary value exponentially. But the cuts, they’re too clinical. They’re ruthless, but they’re calculated in a way that Alistair just isn’t. The stab wounds, though, are all him. All avoid major organs and arteries so that his death would be slow and torturous; just the way he likes.”

 

Both men had similar stony expressions. Some days this job weighed more than it was worth.

 

“Who are you suggesting, then, is the ‘ringleader’?” The damn guy used fucking air quotes. Dean wasn’t sure if he should smile or scoff.

 

“None of them. There’s a new player in town, and he’s blowing up in a big way.” Which on its own is a less than comforting thought, but added to the big players working with him? What happened to the good old gang war days?

 

“How do you suggest we go about discovering the indentify of this new player without your working up the chain of command?” At this Dean grinned and opened another file.

 

“The woman who supplies the operation? I know her. Bela Talbot, finder extraordinaire. I wouldn’t call her a trusted ally, but she owes me a favour from a while back that I haven’t cashed in on. She’s going to be our middle man.”

 

“You intend to have this woman gather information for us? She cannot be higher than middle management, she’s no good to us.” The look of bewilderment that he would suggest such a thing plastered across Novak’s face was nothing short of priceless. For a moment Dean wondered what Novak would do if he pulled out his phone, which should have been left either at home or with the first floor receptionist, to snap a picture. It would settle at least five bets on Novak’s emotional range.

 

“Of course not. She’s gonna be our middle man.” He waved his hand between the two of them. “I’m thirty; I fit in their age group. She’s going to get me in, and keep us in contact.”

 

The deadpan look Dean received was more than magnificent, if not even better than the bewilderment from moments before. Damn thing could win an Oscar. Impressive as fuck, and just a little intimidating in the weirdest way.

 

 “You are asking to become a product. Kept alive by a debt.” The words are pronounced slowly and deliberately. Dean doesn’t miss the undertone questioning his sanity.

 

“Well. No.” Hand rested on his hip, stance defensive, Dean rubs the back of his neck. “She’ll ask for payment since its high risk. We would need her to sign a temporary contract or something but,” his hands fall to his side as he shrugs, “she’ll do the job. The debt just gets our feet in the door.”

 

Novak leans back in his chair, somehow managing to still look ramrod straight. “I don’t like it.”

 

“Look,” Dean scrubs his face with his hand. This is really something he had hoped to avoid. Information he wasn’t willing to share with anyone who just appeared in his life. “It’s the only option. I may have gotten out of that scene years ago, but I will be recognised, and they will be suspicious. No one just disappears from that life for seven years and shows up alive.

 

“It’s not an airtight plan, I get that. Lots of room for error. But you called me in to do this, and this is fastest way to get the job done with minimal casualties.”

 

Movements jerky, Novak pulled Bela’s file to flip through. “She seems less than reliable.” His eyes rose to Dean’s, who quickly averted his own to Novak’s cheeks. Guy needs to shave. “You are asking me to risk not only your life, but also everyone’s who is stuck tangled within the system we are trying to infiltrate and all agents with whom you are acquainted. Correct?”

 

Dean let himself meet Novak’s gaze. Really a stupid thing to do, he figured, since this is a man who could glance through and change Dean’s memories if he felt so inclined. But Dean considered himself a reckless man, which he figures is probably why he didn’t reconsider the plan.

 

“Looks like.”

 

“I see.” How can one man be so infuriating? Blank faced and emotionless voice, Novak may as well be a robot. It would explain the freaky blue eyes. Those had to be lit by light bulbs from the inside. There really is no other possible explanation. Well, none that keeps Dean’s view of masculinity still tacked to his view of himself.

 

With Novak’s continued silence, Dean heaved a long suffering sigh before retrieving a sealed envelope from the scattered mess of files. This file he had plans to shred after this particular meeting was over, risk of being flagged as a security risk or not. Looks like that is yet another plan shot to shit. Must be some kind of record.

 

After flicking the envelope to Novak, who was hit in the shoulder, Dean snatched Bela’s file out of fingers that would look more natural flying across guitar strings than pulling the trigger of a gun.

 

“I’ll be back for this shit after lunch.” Dean had no qualms admitting that he fled from the room with his tail tucked between his legs. Considering how that particularly thick envelope held the closed section of Dean’s own file, he knew exactly what it contained. He didn’t need to stick around to know how Novak would react to its contents. Dean had watched far too many people flip through those pages before they became both metaphorically and literally sealed.

 

 

 

Dean Winchester, of unsound mind and guilty heart, understands just how horrible a person he truly is. He understands that he is a monster in the shape of a man, a twisted soul hidden behind green eyes and a charming smile. He knows these things; knows them because he will never allow himself to forget. He will always dream of his hands coated in fresh and flaking blood. He will see the eyes he had sew shut every time he closes his own. In silent nights the screams and curses from his past will always ring piercingly through his head.

 

Dean Winchester is no doctor, he never claimed to be, but once upon a time he acted as one.

 

These are the reasons that disgust and horror and hatred was expected to be plain on Novak’s face when Dean returned after his lunch break- one that was wasted sitting in front of an ancient fan in his office, letting the wind rickety blades blew brush against his face. There, he had allowed himself a few minutes of regret, time he spent whispering his sorry and longing for forgiveness into blades that tore them apart to throw back into his face. It was an indulgence. One he should never have allowed himself. It was something he had needed, but that was the very reason he should not have allowed himself that time.

 

What Dean didn’t expect was to slink back into Novak’s office with half formed explanations and apologies on his lips to find his file still sealed. Before he could ask, there was an answer.

 

“You can hand me this envelope again if you ever actually want me to know the contents, Winchester.” And that was it. Simple as that, Dean could breathe again. Labored breaths that they were, they got the job done and were wholly undeserved.

 

“You don’t know what’s sitting on your desk.” Or what’s standing in your office, he wanted to say. He held it back. What’s one more selfish act today? May as well pile them on, make the hatred he would feel for himself worth it.

 

“What sits on my desk,” Novak finally raised his eyes from what looked to be floor plans and Dean forced himself to maintain eye contact. This punishment he deserved, and because of it he noticed the flicker in those stupidly blue android eyes. He didn’t know what the flicker meant, and while that bothered him to no end he refused to speculate about it. “Is something you are unwilling to share with me. It is part of your past, part of who you are, and I will not look at it unless you honestly want me to.”

 

And fuck if that isn’t frustrating as hell. Dean clenched his jaw and tapped his fingers against his thigh. Does he want Novak to know? No. Should Novak know? Fuck yes he should. But what’s one more selfish act?

 

“Pretty stupid decision, Novak.” Stepping over scattered papers and folders, Dean retrieved the source of his shame. He hadn’t looked at the contents since long before the seal order was passed, and had both been dreading and anticipating the refresher course.

 

“I am willing to live with the consequences of it should there be any.” How a voice can be deadpan and snarky at the same time is a marvel that leaves Dean’s head reeling.

 

Novak only receives a grunt of acknowledgement.

 

“I do have a question about your plan, however.” Dean drops himself into the previously ignored chair in front of the desk. He waved him on. “You said that you could not situate yourself into their operation due to the years that you have been missing from the ‘scene’,” Dean opted to ignore the air quotes and simply nodded. Novak folded his hands together atop his desk. Papers crinkled under his arms. “Said that you would be recognised regardless.” Again, Dean nodded. “You would still be recognised within the operation if you were to become one of the abducted.”

 

Dean had thought he’d gotten away with that. Had hoped it would stay that way until it was too late to back out, and was more than a bit disappointed that it hadn’t played out that way. Heaving a sigh, Dean straightened his shirt cuffs. Another indulgence, fueled by the desire to (selfishly) delay his reasoning.

 

“Look. The way I fell out of that whole world will make people less willing to take me back into the folds, ok? But I would be more than welcome in their cages.” Which is the last place he wants to be, but if it has to be done... “Which is why it has to be me. Because I’ll be a distraction on top of being an informant.”

 

“I see.” Well, looks like we’re back to that bullshit. Awesome.

 

“Are you gonna ok the plan or not?” The words were bitten off. They would have had sharp edges if they were physical things. The thought brought grim joy coiling in Dean’s chest, even if Novak seemed unfazed by the tone.

 

“Yes.” And, okay, that was a bit unexpected. Dean had expected to be all but pushed out of the assignment, kept on only because he was aware of its existence. Surprise, surprise. “When is the soonest you will be able to contact Ms. Talbot?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Could probably do it by the end of tomorrow. Need to hand off my current assignments before I do anything, though.” Which was only half a lie. Yes, he needed to hand off his assignments (and were it any other case he would insist of finishing them before starting this one, but come one, human trafficking? Hit a bit close to home.), but he could find a way to get a hold of Bela by the end of the night if he tried hard enough. Because of the debt, Dean was careful to have her as close as he could without raising her suspicions. He just really fucking needed one more night before his entire life would change for who the fuck knows how long. One more selfish thing, right?

 

Novak nodded as though he understood all of this. It was unnerving before Dean remembered he was maintaining eye contact more often than not, only allowing himself to look away when he needed to. He may very well know exactly what Dean’s motives were.

 

“You have three days to sort everything out. I would like to get started on this as soon as possible.” Taking that as his cue to leave, Dean dropped to his knees to gather all the shit he’d dropped earlier. It was like a damn game of fifty-two pick-up.

 

Fuck three days, though. Dean would do it in two.

 

 

 

Pawning off his current cases was as simple as begging one Agent Joanna Beth Harvelle for no less than twenty minutes, and falling back on bribery when that didn’t work. A game of pool and a night of free drinks at the bar of her choosing on the soonest possible Saturday. So in all, it took Dean a total of twenty-three minutes to have a free work load. And all before his time limit even started. That said, there was no way in hell he was about to start trying to contact Bela. No, he needed that one night of restful sleep. If that night turned into two, then who was he to complain?

 

One night, though, was mandatory. One night isn’t selfish (that’s a lie). Not in comparison to all the other things he gave himself today (still selfish). One night is something he can want, something he can allow himself (another lie). So he’d pick up the phone tomorrow, visit Bela’s frequented buyers, sift through the damn sewers if he had to, but tonight he had a date with his bed.

 

Which is exactly where he wasn’t. He was damn near as far from his bed as he could be, holed up in a too-bright room surrounded by what is surely a paper cut waiting to happen. Being technologically challenged as he is, Dean was more often than not forced into doing honest to god paperwork before pawning it off to whoever’s arm he could twist far enough’s stack of Dean-is-fucking-useless documents. Bobby was still riding his ass for some form or another that he’s certain he bribed Anna to type up months ago. He’s willing to be a year’s salary that she’s withholding on spiteful principal after he called off their tentative not-relationship near a year ago. She had to have known he was commitment skittish long before they danced whatever fucked up dance they stumbled through. With the assumption that Anna had been under the impression that she could fix him or some other bullshit along those lines, Dean had shrugged off the whole endeavor. He couldn’t be blamed for some silly ill-advised project every other woman got into their pretty little heads now, could he? Hell no.

 

This one, though? Probably. He did let her know that whatever they had was over by selling her out to whoever was after them. Which, okay, wasn’t the best way to go about it, even Dean knew that, but that flash bomb and grenade combo was so uncalled for, douchebaggery or not.  The demand for a new partner, on the other hand, was justified. If Dean took more than a little pleasure with her being saddled up with Agent Barnes, no one, aside from Anna and himself, could really hold it over his head.

 

Still, dick move holding the form back this long. A month, sure, make him sweat a bit. But six months? Even Dean knows that’s pushing into obsessive territory if not completely overstepping it. Far from the first time a girl has gotten heavy handed with the whole vengeance business, and even farther from the worst example, Dean let every stunt Anna pulled slide.

 

That said, Dean had all but refused to sleep with woman after that falling out. There had been a chick here and there, mostly drunken pickups, but men had still proven to be far less drama-prone. Probably shouldn’t have snidely thanked Anna for awakening his love for dick, but she had dismantled his favourite gun and run off with the trigger at the time so he can’t make himself regret that slip up. Her reaction to that bit of news had been enough to get him through three months of retaliation after all.

 

The paper cut, even if he had predicted it, stung more than most knife wounds Dean had experienced. Dipping his finger into his mug of whiskey (add ‘sneaking a drink on the job’ to the ever-growing list of selfish deeds), while a knee jerk reaction, certainly didn’t dull the sting at all. The water that was supposed to be in the mug would have helped with that, but alcohol? Fuck no. Disinfectant or not, hurts like a motherfucker.

 

Not even trying to bite back his rather colourful curses, Dean jumped from the work desk and in a show of far less grace than he should possess, knocks his half empty mug over onto a stack of half filled out forms. And isn’t that just fucking fantastic.

 

Sucking on his finger through a pout that even he has to admit is childish, Dean just gives up on getting any work done for the rest of the day. He really should have left the office long ago, his shift having ended at least- Dean checks his watch to clarify; nine pm- three hours ago.

 

With a huff, Dean shoves whatever forms don’t have his name on them in the recycling and pockets the ones that do, only mildly (severely) put off that whiskey soaked paper was touching his suit jacket and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future. The black suit was far from his favourite, but certainly deserved better treatment than the mess tucked away in its pocket.

 

 

 

The apartment was another indulgence. Not that it was some fancy penthouse or anything close to, but it did have a two storey layout, and more than one bathroom. It was a far cry from anything to brag about, what with the tiny kitchen and outdated appliances, but there were two bedrooms bordering on ‘large’- one of which was used as an office and workout area-, and the best bathroom he had ever used for longer than a week. So he had to run the taps for anywhere between a couple seconds and a couple minutes to get the water running clear, the showerhead was a godsend and he couldn’t find it in himself to care past that. The toilet worked, there was a large fridge, and enough room all around to hold both his work and his personal life. As far as Dean is concerned, his apartment is a goddamn palace suite. So, sure, maybe he bragged a little once or twice.

 

This indulgence is something he didn’t borate himself for. In the time he was looking for a place to stay, this was the cheapest option, and far from the most luxurious. He could have taken the apartment much closer to work that had two and a half storeys and a frankly ridiculous spa tub. If he still fantasised about that tub, no one could exactly blame him for it. The damn thing looked like if could jet away ever ache and pain after even the most taxing assignments, and who didn’t want that?

 

What Dean could be blamed for, however, was his intoxicated state. He may be fairly certain that most people in his situation would have finished off the remains of a vodka bottle (because some stupid twist of a Screwdriver that Jo had introduced him to last New Year’s was fucking delicious in ways he would never admit) and near half a bottle of whiskey (the very same whiskey that had launched his quiet bitter resentment into a much louder burning hatred only minutes ago), too.

 

He isn’t entirely sure who to blame for having no one to drunk dial, but eventually settles on the usual: The Whole Fucking World.

 

This is exactly why he comes to call Agent Novak piss drunk out of his mind and bitter to boot.

 

At the sleep rumbled greeting, Dean opens with what he’s fairly certain is: “You’re a damn dirty asswipe y’know?”

 

Which prompts: “Winchester?” Followed by what Dean thinks is “Are you intoxicated?” But he can’t be entirely sure.

 

“Maybe? I think so. But I know what you are.” He takes another swig. His head doesn’t feel attached to his body. How could something filled with clouds be on the same body as lead legs and spaghetti arms? It couldn’t, obviously, so his head has to be floating just above his shoulders somewhere. He’s not sure where his neck went, but he can worry about that in the morning.

 

“A ‘damn dirty asswipe’?” Was that a sigh? It could have been. Was Novak the one who sighed, or Dean?

 

“Yes! You know, too?” The bottle slams too loudly off his counter. Where did his cup go? He’s sure he was drinking from a cup earlier. Because orange juice and mango concentrate and vodka don’t just come in a bottle, you gotta mix that shit together. “Do a lot of people call you that? They must. Right? Yeah.”

 

“No. Are you going to enlighten me as to why you have attempted to replace your blood with alcohol?” Dean’s lips feel weird. He pinches them. Novak sounds like a tunnel. Maybe he should pinch his ears too. But, wait, no, that wouldn’t work.

 

“’M not sure that’s a thing. Is that an actually-actual thing?”

 

“No, Winchester. That is not a thing.”

 

Okay so maybe he’s a little disappointed. “Oh.”

 

“Are you going to answer the question, or continue to divert? I have work in... Four hours.” Is that hostility? Pretty sure that’s hostility. There are red lights flashing in Dean’s brain. He ignores them.

 

“There was a question?” Thinking is hard. His head keeps floating higher and higher. He must have elastic arms to keep the phone to his ear.

 

Dean is started by the huff that causes static to blast in his ear. It’s not loud, but it feels loud. “Why are you drunk?”

 

“Oh.” Right. Yeah. “Oh, that question. That was a question? Thought you were tryin’ out bein’ funny.” He tries to pick up the bottle. It’s too heavy. He glares at his hand, offended. “Kinda worked.”

 

“Winchester!” Okay, that was loud. His ear rang a bit. Novak must swallow grenades. Dean almost asks if he does. “Why are you drinking?”

 

“Cuz,” he draws the word out, forgets that he’s saying it, remembers, and finishes off. He’s not sure how long he was saying it for, but is impressed that he managed to finish it all the same. “’M goin’ back.”

 

Are tongues supposed to feel so damn floppy? Are tongues even floppy? Why does his even feel like? Dean catches it between his thumb and middle finger, his heavy arm making him tug on it. It’s not floppy at all. It’s chunky and wet and slips from his grasp. Tongues are weird.

 

Maybe he drank more than he though. That bottle sure looks a lot more than half empty. When did that happen?

 

Before Novak can give a reply, or maybe he had already started, Dean blurts out: “Hey, Novak,” his ‘k’ is harsh even to his fuzzy ears. “What’s yer name?”

 

That’s definitely a pause. A long pause. Dean thinks that maybe Novak hung up. He stares at what he thinks is a grease stain above his kitchen sink and nearly loses his grip on his phone.

 

“Why?” Finally an answer. Sounds deeper, a bit pained. Maybe a grenade went off in his stomach. Weird things happen on the job all the time. It takes Dean longer than it should to remember that neither of them are on the clock.

 

“Jus’ tell me,” Dean tried to get his tongue to work around ‘please’ but gives up on when he thinks is his third try.

 

Dean can hear a long breath on the other end of his phone. He looks around his apartment for the source of the noise before he remembers. That most certainly wasn’t a sigh.

 

“My name is Castiel.”

 

Okay. Dean hopes he remembers that later. He manages another swig of whiskey, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it should burn but he is so far past having typical physical reaction. How he came to turn off his phone baffles him. Hanging up seems too complicated, and while he isn’t sure what to say next, it throws Dean into a dull state of awe that he managed to force his phone to power down.

 

He falls asleep on the couch, not sure how he got there, with the whiskey bottle left uncapped beside his ancient toaster. When he wakes near an hour later, he can’t be sure what he was dreaming. He remembers the sea, knives, and the bitter taste of his own screams. Dean tucks his fallen hand under the couch cushion and closes his eyes again.

 

This time he doesn’t dream. Not really.


	3. Author's Note: Life is Crazy and I'm Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not an update, because lots of reasons.

Okidokie! So here's the deal! Most everything I have posted on this was written on my old phone so very little of it was edited much, if at all, and glancing over what I've published of it I can tell you now a lot of this is going to be re-written.

Which is going to take a while since my laptop is officially dead after two years of crawling it's way to the grave, and I'm borrowing my dad's laptop before I get the money to get a new one for myself. I do have my fic's saved onto an external hard drive, but I'm incredibly busy with college prep so I can't say when I'll have time to actually sit down and write anything that isn't already started or doesn't need hardcore re-writing.

So that said, I do intend to update this, but it may take a while because I'm crazy busy and have to re-work most of what I have written and re-work the plans for the plot. 

I definitely should have posted an author's note a while ago, but it never really occurred to me? But anyway, the point of this is: this fic isn't abandoned, but it may take a while to post anything. 

But don't worry if you're digging the plot and characterisation or anything like that, I'm not going to make hard changes on what's been published (I don't think), It's just going to be polished up, and any plot changes will likely be for what hasn't been published or fleshed out yet. 

Sorry guys! 

Lots of love and tons of repetitive apologies,

Nic 


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